Page 23 of Whiskey Kisses For the Mountain Man
I glance from the tree to the lights along the roof to her beaming face. "It's very... Christmassy."
A laugh bubbles out of her. "That's the idea." She hugs her arms around herself against the chill. "Would you like to come in? Just for a minute? I think we should talk about earlier."
I stiffen. "I already told you, I don't want to talk about it."
"I know, but..." She hesitates, her eyes searching mine in the glow of the Christmas lights. "Look, I understand more than you might think. Christmas wasn't always perfect for me either."
Something in her tone makes me follow her inside, though every instinct is telling me to leave. She closes the door behind us, shutting out the cold. But when she turns to look at me again, I see it. The pity look.I should leave.
"When I was little," she begins, settling on her couch, "my parents treated Christmas like a business opportunity. Every gift, every decoration, every party was about networking and appearances. Nothing was ever just... for me." She fiddles with the hem of her dress. "I know it's not the same as your experience, but?—"
"You're right," I cut her off, feeling a surge of anger. "It's not the same. Not even close."
Her eyes widen. "Owen, I wasn't trying to compare?—"
"Yes, you were." I take a step back. "What are you doing, Lettie? Sharing some sad little rich girl story to make me feel better about the toy drive? To make me open up and spill my guts so you can fix me?"
"That's not?—"
"I'm not one of your charity cases," I say, my voice harsh even to my own ears. "I'm not a broken toy for you to fix in time for Christmas."
Hurt flashes across her face. "That's not what I was doing."
"Isn't it? You're the Christmas Queen. You make everything better with tinsel and candy canes. But guess what? Some things can't be fixed, especially not by someone playing pretend in a picture-perfect Christmas bubble."
She rises from the couch, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "That was cruel."
"It was honest." I move toward the door. "I'll work with you on the festival because I have to. But let's keep it professional. No more drinks, no more sharing, no more trying to save the grumpy mountain man with the power of Christmas spirit."
"Owen—"
"I'm not your project, Lettie." My hand closes around the doorknob. "And I'm definitely not your Christmas miracle."
I step out into the cold night, letting the door slam behind me. The lights we just hung cast colorful shadows across the snow, mocking me with their cheerful glow.
Inside my own cabin, I pace, the anger still hot in my veins. They always fucking do this. Every time. Every fucking time, I even consider sharing my fucked up past with anyone. They do this.
I don’t need pity, damn it. Who does she think she is, trying to draw parallels between her privileged childhood disappointments and what I went through?
But beneath the anger, something else gnaws at me—the look on her face when I lashed out. The hurt I caused. The fact that maybe, just maybe, she was genuinely trying to connect.
I push the thought away. Better to keep my distance. Better to stay angry. Anger is safer than whatever else might be growing between us.
CHAPTER SIX
LETTIE
The car drives out of town toward the coast. The tree farm is two hours northwest of Eden Ridge. It’s so fortuitous to have found a tree that rivals Chicago’s Millennium Park so close to town. Delivery costs won’t cut too deep into the budget.
I prep my editing apps and filters for filming b-roll at the farm. I attempted conversation with the driver the first forty-five minutes, but his continued grunts as replies were enough of a hint, and I backed off.
Sighing, I lean back, watching the evergreens race past through the window. I want any distraction that’ll silence this obsessive spiral of thoughts reminding me of Owen’s eyes blazing with anger and a hint of…pain.
There’s a deep trauma there that broke my heart. What he hinted at, what I believe happened to him as a child. I want to hold him and infuse every hope and joy into the shadows of his heart.
Simultaneously, my own chest aches, the sting of his words aimed at my armor I’ve spent so much energy building after being torn and ripped apart publicly. My childhood wasmaterially privileged, but a person needs more than financial security. You could have everything and more and never feel a kind hand or word, less love.
Why do I have a feeling that Owen grew up having neither?
